Emmy-nent Domain
by Javanyet
Summary: Emmy night is approaching, and Kirshner wants in. Chapter 6: Everyone's poised to win (or lose) on Emmy night; Mike and Bonnie "go public" on the red carpet, and Bonnie tries out her new press credentials on Don Kirshner. And the night ain't over yet.
1. A place at the table

"You've got to be kidding." Bob Rafelson stared across his desk in disbelief at his former colleague.

"A deal's a deal. It was part of the exit agreement."

"You mean it was part of the extortion you perpetrated against Raybert Productions for the pleasure of your absence."

"Tomato, tomahto. The fact is, there's one place left at that Emmy table, and I intend to be in it. For my contributions to the show."

"_Jesus_, I never really thought you'd do it!"

Kirshner shoved the "exit agreement", the details of his forced departure, across the desk at Bob. "Well you were wrong. You've been wrong a lot, where this show and band of weirdos has been concerned."

"Yeah," Bob snorted, "it takes a lot of 'wrong' to get nominated for two Emmys." One for writing, and one for best comedy/musical/or variety show. The Monkees, Bob had declared with delight when all of their nominations were in, covered all three. He should have known the smell of national attention would have drawn this egomaniac back to the fold. "Well I was right about one thing, anyway... you may have been a useful for a while, but then even an asshole is useful."

Kirshner smirked as he rose. "You can have that secretary, Bonnie Morris, send the official invitation to my office... so there's no mixup at the door."

"You'd love that, you bastard, but she's my A.P. now. Which is why I _don't_ want the former music director crowding her out."

"Well she wasn't when it counted. When my music was putting the winners of your hippie cattle call on the charts, and the map."

"Goddammit Don, it's not a _music_ award." But he was trapped, and he knew it. He probably should have known the self-congratulatory weasel would show up for the payoff, but Bob had figured (hoped) that he'd be too absorbed in marketing his cartoon "superstars" to care about horning in on the show whose real _live_ stars hated his guts. Kirshner was shrugging, mildly smiling that reptilian smile of his.

"Fine," Bob snapped. "The invite will be in the mail. But don't expect scintillating dinner conversation. And _do _let the door hit you in the ass."

When Kirshner had gone, Bob fell back into his chair and dropped his head in his hands.

"Shit, shit, _SHIT,_" he chanted. They had exactly seven table invitations to the Emmys. Four for the band (it surprised him how easily he'd come to think of them that way), one for him, one for the lead writer of their three-man team, and one for... _SHIT!_ He'd purposely planted Bonnie's name on every piece of promo for the show since they got the first nomination letter during the Paris shoot, for a number of reasons. One, to spread production load that was driving him to an early grave as the show took off like a rocket. Two, to draw the press to someone who was already recognized as a liaison to the show and the band. And three... well, not that he'd be caught dead saying it out loud in public, but Bonnie had been doing at least half the job of an A.P. for almost a year before he promoted her. Sure they had some hard differences, and he was always waiting for the other shoe of her relationship with Mike "Give Me Artistic Purity or Give Me Death" Nesmith to drop on his head, but they worked pretty well together. She didn't waste time on manners when it got down and dirty, but he knew at this point he'd be dead without her, or someone like her. _Shit. _He knew better... it wasn't just Producer and Associate Producer chemistry, it was _all_ of them. All of them, including Genie and Chip and the designers and people whose names he couldn't remember on any given day, had busted their asses and paid their dues to get here.

But what was churning in Bob's head at the moment was one particular member of the Crazy Train that was The Monkees, and how to tell her that she was being bumped in favor of the man that _nobody _wanted to share this particular circle of the spotlight with. That's what really got to him... he knew Kirshner probably wouldn't even show up. He'd seen his share of backstabbing and pick-pocketing in this business but never the pure mean spite of a playground bully wrecking the game just because he could. Until now.

_SHITSHITSHIT_

He buzzed his secretary.

"Monica, can you get hold of Bonnie on the soundstage, and tell her I need to see her when they're through with taping,thanks."

"Sure, can I tell her what it's about?"

Monica kept a tight ship and her lips sealed, but was fond of getting the inside scoop even if she kept it to herself.

"Nope, just tell her to come by my office when they're through."

Maybe by then he'd figure out what to say besides "_shitshitSHIT!_"


	2. The bummer side of the business

Bob Rafelson usually loved his job, no matter how crazy it got. But if he had to pick one day to hate it to the bone, today would be it.

"You know I don't want this, you know I tried to talk Kirshner out of it. Hell, I never thought he'd actually _remember_! But..."

"It's okay, Bob. You're right, it was more important to get rid of him when you did. I don't blame you, I blame that sawed off excuse for a music mogul."

It was hard enough for him to look her in the eye, but the look on her face killed him. He'd expected an argument, a raging hell-storm, even. Their disagreements could be intense, but they always played by certain rules, and right now Bonnie Morris was breaking them. Oh, he expected her to grasp the logic of it, that it had just been a throwaway included in the consolation/coercion prize that also included telling the press that Kirshner had left of his own accord to "pursue bigger projects". Even the P.R. about his contract expiring had been a lie... the jerk had a self-renewal clause that would continue until the show folded or until Kirshner decided it was time to go. Looking back Bob could hardly believe he'd ever believed that what they were doing was so dependent on one guy, no matter who he was. But he was becoming more trouble than he was worth, what with the conflicts with the guys (who had admittedly begun to prove themselves musically) and his picking fights with Nesmith, who could be counted on to blast into orbit at the push of any button. Then there was Kirshner's baiting of other staff, Chip, and even Genie, who he knew didn't respect him "enough". And of course Bonnie, who up until Paris had managed to keep her anger under wraps. But even a valuable asset can get too expensive, and Kirshner had lost most of his value anyway.

As Bob told her all of this, Bonnie nodded, shrugged, displayed her understanding of what they called the "bummer side of the business". Still,he expected more fight from her, and none was forthcoming.

_Jesus that look... like a kid who's just been told Christmas has been canceled. Well why not? She'd sweated blood along with the rest of them, plus having to juggle her thing with Nesmith, and her job, which God knows were at odds more often than not. She deserved to be there on Emmy night as much as any of them. But the fact was, she wasn't associate producer during the nominated season. The Fairy Tale epi, yeah, she as on board for that, but it only just made the deadline for the writing nomination. Neither was Kirshner of course, but... shit. Bonnie had sat out the Grammy's when they won best pop album of the year, for the same reason Kirshner should be sitting out the Emmys. And she did it of her own free will. Okay, she didn't want to be in Kirshner's company any more than absolutely necessary, but still..._

"Bob... Bob? It's not your fault. We had to get rid of him or it would have screwed up everything. It was a good trade."

"But not a fair one."

"Yeah, well... do the guys know?"

Bob sucked in his breath. Reason number two to hate his job, coming right up. "Of course not. I had to talk to you first." He paused, wanting to hand her control of _something_. "Do you want to tell them?"

"Ah, look if you don't mind... would you do it? I got some stuff to do before we head home, review shooting schedules, you know..." She was already halfway to the office door but Bob called her back.

"Bonnie... I'm sorry, I mean it. If there was a way I could get around this, you know I'd bribe God himself..." _Lame, lamer. lamest._

She didn't answer, just nodded with a forced half smile. Then that look returned. She closed the door more quietly than usual, just as Bob had been wishing mightily for a wall-rattling slam. He got up and headed for the dressing rooms where the guys would still be getting out of costume and makeup, to give them the shitty news.

As he walked, Bob reminded himself Bonnie was as sensible as anyone in the business, and didn't doubt for a minute that she understood every why and wherefore, no matter how badly they sucked. But he felt like he'd just gut-punched Bambi, and couldn't stop wondering if there might be some way out of this _particular_ bummer side of the business.


	3. Never the twain shall meet

"C'mon, Bob, there must be something you can do, Kirshner isn't even connected to the show!" Micky voiced the same head-shaking disbelief as the others. Mike predictably smoldered in silence.

"I'm sorry, and I mean I'm _really_ sorry," Bob told them. "It stinks. But it's a done deal. I talked it out with her and Bonnie knows how it all happened and agrees it sucks, but she's not fighting it. It would be more trouble than it's worth." Mike, who was leaning against the makeup table, muttered something under his breath.

"You got something to say," Bob told him, "just say it out loud." He'd had about enough of this lousy day and the last thing he was interested in was another round with the Artiste Deluxe.

"I said, _Bob_," Mike delivered with his patented sneer, "no surprise she's not fighting it. She knows where the power is here. Why the hell _would _she fight it when it'd just come back on us so you could teach her a lesson by showing us who's boss?"

Davy was rolling his eyes and Peter mumbled, "Not now, man." But it was too late.

"Listen to me, you self important _punk_," Bob growled as she stepped up inches from Mike's face, "The reason Bonnie didn't fight it is she's smart enough to know the difference between a trade-off and a sellout, and she sure as shit didn't learn that from _you_." Suddenly Mike wasn't leaning against the table anymore, and Micky was poised to hold him back.

"That's okay, boys, he's hot to punch another wall, aren't you Mike?" Bob was nearly shouting. Mike was in a full rage, but standing still, so Bob leaned forward and dropped his voice. "If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll stay the hell out of this. Bonnie doesn't need your self-righteous advice, and I sure as _shit_ am tired of it." He paused for a second, taking in the stunned looks worn by Davy, Peter, and Micky. "So are we clear? Any questions?"

They variously shrugged and looked at one another, cutting glances at Mike to be sure he wasn't going to jump Bob at the last second.

"Good. In case you're wondering, Kirshner will _not _be riding in the limo with us next Sunday. In fact I'd rather drag him behind it." Bob stopped and ran his hands over his face and through his hair, a gesture remarkably similar to Mike when he, too, was ready to crack. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to get extremely drunk."

"But it's only two-thirty," Peter observed a little timidly.

Bob looked at his watch. "So it is. I'd better stop on the way and get more Scotch." He slammed out of the room.

"Bli-_mey_," Davy breathed, then whistled. "Never seen old Bob lose it like _that _before."

"Guess having to give in to Bubble Gum Boy pushed him over the edge," Micky suggested.

"I dunno," Peter said, "He seems kinda freaked over Bonnie getting shut out."

Mike was still glowering. "Not freaked out enough to do anything about it."

"Look, he was right about trade offs," Micky told him. "I've been doing this show biz crap for most of my life, and sometimes you just gotta wade through the bullshit to get to nirvana, y'know? So maybe it's better if you cool out, Mike."

Mike was not inclined to comply. "You must be _high_, I'm gonna cool out after the way he talked to me?"

"Micky's right, take it from someone else serving a life sentence in the land of make-believe," Davy advised and started toward the door, giving Mike a shove as he passed. "You know he's taken worse from you, mate. Why don't you find Bonnie and take a drive or something. She can't be feeling very bright about now." Peter and Micky nodded and followed him out, headed off in their own directions.

Bonnie's office was locked, so Mike went to the parking lot and found her sitting on the hood of the Malibu, his latest acquisition. When she dodged his _very_ sympathetic kiss he gave her an odd look. "What?"

"I'm not falling for it this time, I know you too well. I don't wanna talk about it and I _don't _wanna listen about it. So put the soapbox away and let's just go home."

They were halfway there when Mike couldn't hold back any longer. "I just can't believe you didn't raise hell over this."

She stared out the window. "You also can't believe 'Winchester Cathedral' made number one last year. Let it go."

"But..."

"I said let it _go._"

So he did. For about another ten minutes until they got in the door.

"Look," Mike began as he tossed his keys and wallet on the table. "How could you let him do that to you and not say anything?"

Bonnie dropped her bag with a thump and pivoted to face him. "Y'know for a musician you don't listen so well. And I said plenty, it's just not what _you_ would've said."

"You got that right." He sat on the sofa with a thump, and she followed to stand over him, gesturing angrily.

"Well what's _wrong_ with that? Jesus, Nesmith, when it comes to working with Bob I have _never_ said what you would have said! And before you ask why, I'll tell you, because my job is different, that's why. You guys are all about making it perfect, you know, the timing, the jokes, the music, the groove, _all_ of it you try to get as perfect as it is in your heads. But _you're_ the only one who acts like life hangs in the balance when it isn't! Fine, I got no problem with high standards. But _I_ can't believe that after all this time, you still don't get it."

He sat up as she walked away. "Get what? The 'difference between a trade-off and a sellout'? That's what Bob called it."

"He's right."

"He also said you sure as shit didn't learn that from me." He was up and pacing now.

"Right again." When his expression tightened, she went on, "Like I said, you're all about _perfect. _Well dammit, Nesmith, what I do is different! I'm in the _business_ of show business, and that'll never be about perfect. It's about good enough, and close enough, and trading off. As in, getting rid of Kirshner was more important than protecting anyone's ego, even if it meant protecting his." She gestured again, wild with frustration. "What we do, Bob and me and legal and P.R. and yeah, even a few of the lesser PTB, we give you room to worry about 'perfect'. And when that room gets a little ugly, you need to do us all a favor, just close your eyes and think of perfect, okay?"

"Great, all I want to do is make things better and..."

Bonnie shut her eyes for a minute. _oh shit, here we go... I __cannot__ do this right now_

"Well you can't, okay? What is it they say in Texas? 'You don't have a dog in this fight.' You need to stay out of it, and I mean all the way out! It's _my_ fight, and I settled it my way,and it sucks but that's the way it is and you can't make things better." Now it was Bonnie who was pacing as Nesmith followed, and she felt like a fox trying to escape the hounds.

"But I want to..." he started again, and she wheeled on him in a fury.

"Goddammit, do I need to say it in Spanish? You can't! _ No se puede! _ You can't make this better for me, you can only _make it worse!"_ Bonnie stormed to the front hallway, muttering, "I gotta get outta here on my own for a while." She grabbed a set of keys off the increasingly crowded rack near the front door. "I'm takin' the Pontiac," she snapped, and slammed the door so hard the remaining keys rang like wind chimes.


	4. The concrete and the ethereal

It was after five when Mike put away the guitar and his songwriting notebooks and went out to the living room to check the clock over the fireplace. He'd left his watch upstairs, determined to let Bonnie's mood take as long as it needed to without checking on how long that might be.

_Ah, shit._

He went out to the deck to repeat in a shout that echoed over the canyon - "SHIT!" - then went back in the house and got himself a beer.

Hell, they'd had this "discussion" before, the concrete versus the ethereal, the promotional and management process and the creative process, how even though they were like two tent poles holding up the same roof, success meant two _completely _different things depending on which pole you were bracing. In fact it was probably the first real conversation they'd ever had... how long ago was that? Before Paris, before Chicago... before he was even sure of who she was and what she did on the show.

They'd been together now for what, year and a half if you counted the dodging and weaving they did in the beginning. Less than a year since she'd first come to his bed. Less than that, since she'd moved in. Through it all they'd always been cool with approaching their opposite sides of the same Monkees circus tent as more of a puzzle, an exercise in logic, than a battle. Oh they'd gotten into it to the point of raised voices, almost without realizing it, as the points they made (that they'd made plenty of times before) got louder, as if that gave them more weight. No big deal, in fact at times it was almost a game. And they always knew when to stop. Sometimes it was him who did it, when things got _this close_ to heavy, he'd abruptly suggest dinner, or some close lounging on the deck. Or sometimes she'd yawn and say 'I'm tired, let's put it to bed for now.' Either way, they always shut it down like flipping a switch, something to break the momentum. No, not break it... just send it in another direction. He _knew_ he'd been right when he told Peter that he and Bonnie got mad at the things they couldn't agree on, but never at each other.

But today was different, for sure. Today was Opposites Day, she said "stop" before they started. Then again, today it wasn't about philosophy. This new mess was the one-hundred percent reality of concrete banging into ethereal, and it had spun out of control at the speed of sound. Bob's freak-out at the studio should have been a cosmic warning.

"Maybe I shoulda kept my goddamn mouth shut," Mike announced to the empty room. Bonnie had told him often enough, the biggest difference between her and Mike, and even Mike and Bob, was the ability to pick the right battles, to give up a skirmish now to win the war later. Okay, it wasn't just Bonnie who told him. In their way the other guys told him that too, when things got to him and he thought his head would explode. Peter told him because, well, he just wasn't that into wars of any kind, and preferred diplomacy. And David and Micky because they knew the show biz game. "Patience, my son," Mick would say in his put-on Father Flanagan voice, "all things come to those who don't flip out." But Bonnie had told him plainly, because she knew him in a different way.

* * *

_"Nesmith, I know you want everything now, hell so do I, but 'now' is for kids. Better to have everything when the time is right. Just think of 'later' as **now**, only for grownups."_

* * *

Something else made today different, too, something that rang ugly bells in Mike's brain. Bonnie had never shot out of the house and raced off in a screech of tires. He'd done that plenty _himself, _no lie, but that was before. _Before... what?_ Before he'd met her, before she lived here... before he had something he couldn't imagine racing away from.

Little flashbacks started sparking in his head. Why the hell hadn't he kept his mouth shut? _Because I thought I didn't have to._ Neither one of them did, wasn't that what brought them together in the first place, the freedom to be who they were, proverbial warts and all? Still...

Mike realized he was pacing from room to room, muttering half of his thoughts aloud. "Hell with this," he declared and bounded upstairs two steps at a time carelessly knocking the tin of cocoa butter to the floor as grabbed his watch from the bedside table. When he picked it up and set it back in its usual place, another tiny flashback assaulted him. Another day, another argument like many before except for one thing: a slamming door, and screeching tires. Only that door had stayed slammed, and those tires never came back.

_It's not the same, everything is different now._ Still...

The knot in his gut overcame his logical brain, and he picked up the phone and dialed Peter's number._  
_


	5. Yes sir, yes sir, two ears full

Pete was a goddamn existential alchemist, the one person in Mike's whole freaked out universe who had always been able distill something resembling sense from life when chaos was reigning supreme. Which is why Mike was mightily disappointed to hear Davy's voice on the other end of the phone.

_"Pete's gone to get more beer. Him, Mick and meself are having a little planning party, y'know, after what Bob said. We're seeing about hatching a plot."_

"Good. Kirshner needs some plotting. I'm in."

_"Somethin' else, actually. And you're better out of it."_

Mike almost slammed the phone down, but instead sniped, "Oh, right. Gotta give Bob a break." He could hear Davy's hiss of exasperation.

_"No, you wanker, I guess you were too busy getting wound up to hear that they've settled it, we're just trying to figure out how to get her in without making her life harder. She's earned it."_

"That's what I mean! She belongs at the table with all of us and I don't understand why she's not raising hell."

_"That's not what you mean, and you know it. You mean you're going spare because she isn't raising hell because you call that 'selling out'. Stop expecting her to be like you, 'cos she can't. We got our job and she has hers, and hers doesn't include punching holes in the bloody walls when she thinks things should be different. Shit, Mike, we all know things should be different sometimes but other times you just have to take what's there and get on with it. Did you go for a drive, let her air out her head?"_

"No, we did not 'go for a drive'. We got home and she went batshit crazy on me, and jumped into my Pontiac and burned enough rubber to reach from here to Seattle."

_"Let me guess... you tried to get her to raise a little hell and she did. Just not where you expected."_

Just then there was a confusion of noise, and Micky's voice replaced Davy's.

_"Look, Mr. Gimme Everything Yesterday or Gimme Death, I don't need to hear the whole thing to know when you're screwing up. Again. Christ, what is WRONG with you two? There are people who'd kill to have what you've got. You have a fat paycheck, more cars than Detroit, and you're shacked up with a fairly foxy successful older chick who can't keep her hands off the Nine Iron."_

"WHAT?"

_"Hey, word gets around. Anyway, she has a fat paycheck, your fancy house, and first dibs on the guitar god who has chicks lined up around the block just begging to be screwed and abandoned. And what do you guys do with all of this wall-to-wall grooviness?" _

Silence for a moment, then Mike said, "Well I expect you're about to tell me."

_"That's right. We all work in the same circus, right? So do you think that if the clown lived with the ringmaster..."_

"Associate ringmaster."

_"Who cares? Do you think after a bummer day when they get home they argue over how many to cram into the car tomorrow?"_

"Look, man, I just called to talk to Peter."

_"Peter? You'd have to listen to fifteen minutes of zen before he cut the chase, which is: why don't you do what millions of other people do after a shitty day. Just lay down a little 'poor baby', and let it go."_

Mike shook his head and stared at the receiver. "Mick, you clearly have us confused with two normal people."

Suddenly the humor went out of Micky's voice.

_"Joke's over, man. E__verything you have is yours to lose. And if you lose it all again, it's gonna be a lot longer road back than it was the first time. Oh, hey, Peter's back. Hey Pete! Mike's on the phone. He's fucking up again."_

Mike rapped the receiver against his forehead, and rolled his eyes.

_"Mike? What's going on? You and Bonnie wanna come over, we're gonna have a little party later, to balance out all that bad karma from today."_

God bless Peter. Maybe it _was_ as simple as that. Or maybe it was like Mick and Davy said, too. Well how would he know, if she shut down again like she used to do? Mike could hide behind his shades when he wanted to but Bonnie, she could hide in plain sight and never hear you knocking.

"She took off, man. She grabbed the keys to the GTO and took off like a bat outta hell, after tellin' me off for trying to get her to see things my way."

Peter's sigh was deafening. _ "Gee, you mean it didn't work? My mind is blown." _

When Mike didn't answer Peter added, _"Look, man, just relax. Everybody fights, you said so yourself, you do it plenty. You just stay mad at what you're fighting about."_

"Yeah except it's looking like this time it's me."

_"Wow, that does suck. Well just do what you always do."_

"Forgive me if I don't recall..."

_"Get through the day and start over tomorrow. Kinda like what Bonnie does with Bob. Except they do it without all the mindbending sex."_

**"WHAT?"**

_"Hey, w__ord gets around. __Back lacerations, love bites... makeup girls see everything. Don't worry, Mike, she'll be back soon, GTO and all."_

"Yeah, because I own the title."

_"No, dumbass, because she loves you. For once just be her old man, and let her be your old lady, and leave it to us to outwit the PTB, okay?"_

"Why do the words 'we're doomed' come to mind?"

_"I'm hanging up now."_

Click.

Mike hung up the phone and sat for a minute. Okay, they were right, all of them. Him and Bonnie, they wasted a whole lot of time on stuff that didn't have to ride home with them. What do regular people do when the day sucks? One talks,the other listens, one sympathizes, and the other sulks a little. Or so he'd heard. Then, like Pete said, they start over tomorrow. A smile crept over his face. _And a little mindbending sex wouldn't be bad, either._

With no idea when Bonnie would be back, or in what frame of mind, Mike decided to go to the one place where he could shut out everything in the world and focus only on what was in front of his eyes. He stripped out of his t shirt and jeans, pulled on a set of coveralls and swapped his boots for sneakers.

"Buick needs an oil change and the brakes are a mess," he announced aloud, then headed downstairs and out to the garage.

* * *

"D'you think they've finally gone over the edge this time?" Davy asked after taking another toke from the hookah and washing it down with a swill of beer.

"Nah," Micky said. "Just think it's the first time the argument got real, y'know? I mean, the show and stuff, we all agree on what we want and how it could work, but they're _never_ gonna be in in the same groove about how to get there. Today's probably the first time it was all Bonnie's thing, by invitation only, and Mike wasn't invited."

"Yeah, well, she's older in't she?" Davy observed. "I mean like, more experience in some stuff, perspective-like. And Mike, well y'know how he is, if he can't have it now, gotta know why, and when he's told why he'll tell you why not. Must be hard to _find_ the middle, let alone meet there."

Peter was ruminating in silence, sprawled on one the dozens of floor pillows that littered his living room, letting the smoke run in his head for a bit. Suddenly he sat upright.

"Men, I have a plan. Bonnie can't come to the Emmy's as production staff, so... we figure out some other job title."

Davy was shaking his head sadly. "No way, mate. She can't carry a tune in a pail, can't sew a bleedin' button on a costume, can't even hit a note on a kazoo."

"A triple threat," Micky mused from his own pillow-slouch, then snickered. "Poor Bon-Bon, loving the art but stuck with the paperwork."

"Guys, paperwork, that's it!" Peter exclaimed. He crawled off his pillow, in search of the phone. "Gotta call Bob."

Micky waved his hand. "Bad idea, man. Scotch on the way home, and all that."

"Oh, right."

They were a little wifty themselves, by now.

"Well we got a week, we can catch him in time to figure it out." Peter described his fiendishly simple plan to the others.

"Sounds groovy. But you'd better write it down, could get lost in the party," Davy warned. At that moment the doorbell rang. "Hey, the birds are here..."

"Hey c'mon in Lucy, Robin, Annie, welcome," Peter called out as the trio of girls from the makeup department entered. "Beer's in the fridge, munchies on the table, party in progress."

A fourth girl trailed the others. "Where's Mike?" she asked, looking around the room as the guys looked at each other in surprise.

Annie explained, "Well, I know he's kind of living with Bonnie, but Laura here said she'd heard from one of the costume girls he's always ready to party,and he's a _real_ fine time." The way she said "time" made it sound like quite a different four-letter word.

"Sometimes the word gets around too _late_," Micky muttered to Davy, who turned his most winning smile on the disappointed Laura and invited,

"Don't be sad luv, he's not your type anyway. _Very_ dark and moody, right boys? We'll get someone who's better at smiling. Pete, give Chip a call will ya? Now, who feels like dancing?"


	6. Getting it

"Nesmith?" Bonnie called out as she walked in the door. "Nes? You here? Door's unlocked..."

The rage and frustration that had driven her out the door had burnt away over the past few hours. Things had to change, some inside and some outside, so she'd thought hard about the first and had done something about the second.

* * *

_During her getaway Bonnie finally admitted to herself that it wasn't Bob and Nesmith that kept her standing between them as they duked it out. It was her own damn fault, she was the one who stood in the middle of every pissing contest and wondered why she was the only one who got wet. It was time to get real. Bob knew the artistic riff, and Nes and the guys knew the business riff. Everyone already understood, they just didn't like it, and for some insane reason Bonnie had believed that she should try to change that. Well today was a lesson in Stupid, for sure. Bob hated what they had to do, but Bonnie was determined to act like she didn't. Determined to be Professional. So determined that she treated Nesmith like shit just because he got it wrong and figured she'd been bulldozed by Bob and the PTB. She should have just told him simply what had happened in Bob's office, because he would have believed her. She wanted to tell Nes how hard it was to feel robbed like this after all this time because she knew he understood what it was like working so hard and still feeling like you're on the outside. The honest truth was, she'd been afraid if she started talking about it she'd just break down and start bawling like a little kid. So she did what she was best at... she blew into full raging Mamadillo mode and rolled up hard and fast, and once again Nes was caught in the slamming armor plate._

_Okay, so he'd been right awhile back, they'd never be the "easy type" together. But she didn't care, she wanted this, and wanted him, and hated how they let the wrong things get in the way sometimes. It was time to get real. That was change number one. _

_Now, change number two... the external. Time to stop acting like she was still writing promo back in the Village for the love of the music and Benny. That was another part of getting real, and it meant growing up and knowing who she was now. She wasn't a fan or a groupie or a hanger on. If she wanted to be taken seriously by people out in the world it was time to show them she was serious. She was the associate producer of the most successful show on television and she was through being afraid of it and through being mistaken for a soft centered hippie and not the harder edged exec she had to be. She loved her job, and was good at it, and it was time to get real and show that face to the world._

* * *

When nobody answered her call, Bonnie figured she'd find Nesmith in the music room, headphones on and tuned out of the world. He wasn't there, but she found one of his notebooks left carelessly open on the sofa. That wasn't like him at all, he never wanted anyone to look at anything that wasn't fully formed. She'd never tried to get around that, but this time just leaned a little closer to see the words he was breaking down and building on.

_try to live and love with a heart that won't be broken / it's like tryin to see the truth / with eyes that won't be opened  
__yeah we both got our damage / we picked up along the way / so if you love me do it gently / I'll try to do the same  
__/-/-/-/-  
we might be oil and water / this could be a bad mistake / we could burn like gasoline and fire /__that's the chance I'll have to take_

All the rambling clumsy thoughts that had stumbled through her head for the past four hours were right there in front of her, and she knew realer than real she'd rather have it difficult and messy with Nesmith than easy and neat and tidy with anybody else. Suddenly she knew where he'd be.

The garage that had come with the house was good enough to hold a couple of cars, but a couple of cars weren't good enough for Mike Nesmith. So he'd had a proper working garage built, two lifts, air compressors, rolling towering cabinets of tools that would do an Indy pit crew proud. And attached to that, another space big enough to hold his growing collection of vehicles both vintage and modern. The whole auto-shop/parking barn combo nearly dwarfed the house. Bonnie had even teased Nes once about a possible Freudian substitution of machinery for groupies.

"I don't think that's what they mean by auto-erotica," he'd drawled in reply, "besides... I don't want these gone in the morning."

Now she walked by the Pontiac where she'd left it in the parking area next to the house (Nes being the house valet-parking expert), and saw the light on in one of the work bays. Entering through the side door, she saw Nes, visible from only the shoulders down, standing under the front end of the Buick that he had halfway up on the lift. The front tires were leaning against the wall, and the drop light made a weird bright pool on the concrete floor.

"Hey," she ventured, not wanting to startle him. "Didn't expect to find you out here..."

"Well I didn't want to make things harder for you," came the muffled reply. There was no sarcastic edge.

_Oh God._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I know you'd never... look I'm thinking we need to talk, not argue or debate or philosophize, just talk, okay?"

His hand extended from behind the wheel bearing. "Hand me the air wrench, will ya?" She did, and for a moment that's all that could be heard. He handed it back to her, still standing under the car. "Look, I've been thinkin' too, and I think maybe we should just rewind a little, okay? I shoulda kept my damn mouth shut, and you shoulda kept your temper, and we both shoulda just left all that shit back at the studio and been a little _nicer_ to each other, you know, just be us like we are when we're not on the job..."

She was about to agree, _Yes, exactly_, when he ducked out from under the car.

"Su-_weet _mother o' pearl, who are _you_ and what have you done with my Morris?" he exclaimed, whipping off his safety goggles.

"I thought it was time for a change." Bonnie ran a hand through her hair. Her brand new hair, or less of it anyway. The long braid was gone, replaced by a sleek fifty-dollar Sassoon bob. "One of the things I was thinking, was that part of the reason it's so easy for a schmuck like Kirshner, and some others, to write me off is because I look more like a fan, or worse, a _groupie_, than what I am. Which is... production, professional, you know? Laugh if you wanna, but the look has as much to do with my job as the sound does to yours."

Mike shook himself out of his bug-eyed stare. "Believe me, mama, I am _not _laughin'." She looked smoother, more together, even in the same jeans and t-shirt she'd been wearing when she screamed out of the house earlier. She looked like... "You look like a chick on a _mission,_ baby." He wiped his hands on his coveralls and stepped up for a closer look. "Well looky here, you have got quite a neck on ya..." He ran light fingers under her ear and under the satin edge of her hair as if he'd never seen her before.

"Michael, were you listening?"

He stepped back and offered a smile. "Yeah, I was listening. I _am_ listening. So, talk."

She grabbed the front of his coveralls and looked up urgently into his eyes. "I'm so _sorry,_ I was being such a jerk, I wanted to act like it was all groovy because I wanna be so goddamn professional, you know, and that means taking it all with a smile, but I was wrong, yeah we gotta take it but we don't have to smile, but it sucks so bad and hurts so bad I didn't wanna talk about it so I wanted _you_ to shut up..."

It was all coming out in a continuous rush of words, and the only thing that could stop it was the only thing that did, when Mike wrapped both hands around Bonnie's head and silenced her with a kiss.

"Y'know," he told her earnestly when he let her go, "sometimes you just talk too damn much. And so do I. So how about right now you just be my old lady -no offense - and I'll try to be your old man. So... how'd your day go at the office, dear?" Maybe someday he'd tell her where he got the inspiration... but not today.

She felt her breath hitch as she'd feared it would, but didn't care. "It kinda sucked, the boss he did his best, but it really kinda sucks. I wanna go _so bad, _and be there with all of you, it just _sucks." _She let him pull her into his arms, and the way he stroked her head and pressed it to his shoulder felt new, and somehow closer than all the times before.

* * *

When they got back to the house Mike cleaned up and found Bonnie on the deck outside the bedroom.

She looked up at him, shamefaced, and confessed, "I can't believe I said that to you. The only way you could make anything worse is if you weren't here."

He sat next to her on the Mission love-seat and pulled her into his lap. "Well I'll do my best to stick around, then."

She heaved a shaky sigh. "Finally we all got some payoff, y'know, and I know you might think it's just a PTB thing, awards and all, but it's the one time we'd all be in together on the same side, not debating, not killing ourselves to get it right, and I won't be there for it, and who knows if we'll ever get the chance again. I just feel so... _ripped off_."

When she started to cry Mike pummeled back his urge to rage against what happened (even as he believed Bob probably _did_ think it sucked) and instead hugged Bonnie tight. "I know, baby. Sometimes 'sucks' is a part of the job, yours 'n' mine both. Lemme see if a little sugar and some poor-babyin' can take some of the hurt off."

Suddenly Bonnie raised her head from Mike's shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"This'll never be a mistake," she told him.

He gave her a kiss and followed with a wry smile, running his fingers through her short, soft hair. "Saw that, did ya. Well y'know..."

"Not for me, not for anybody. But I'm telling you Michael, now it's your turn to be wrong. Like you told me in New York when I was afraid we wouldn't work. It's _your_ turn to be wrong now."

"Mm-hm," he mused and pulled her head to his shoulder again. "Nice to have somethin' else in common... now you think you can handle a little more sugar and poor-babyin'? I'm new to it, but I think I'm getting the hang..."

* * *

Back at Peter's place, the party had been interrupted by a call from Bob. As the girls waited in varying states of boredom and frustration with Chip as their sole entertainment, Micky Peter and Davy got on separate extensions.

_"Okay, guys I just got off the phone with Pam Saunders. We got a fix that'll get Bonnie into the Emmy's. Ann Moses is giving Pam an extra press pass for the magazine, so Bonnie can sit in the press section. Sixteen has the front row, so she'll be pretty close by. Best I could do."_

Davy offered immediate approval, "Niiice, Bob, you are a proper sneaky bastard when the chips are down."

"Yeah," Micky added, "Davy was afraid Bonnie had no talents to exploit. He forgot how she makes him taller in the press releases."

"Ha, ha, mate, he's a bloody liar, Bob."

_"Yeah, well you kids can settle that among yourselves. She's gonna ride with us in the limo, but part company at the carpet. I'll go over it with her tomorrow. And hey guys... have you seen her? She seemed a little too cool, y'know?"_

"It's okay, Bob," Peter broke in, "she doesn't blame you. I mean, we're all pissed off y'know? But at Kirshner. She'll be okay."

"Wait, don't hang up!" Micky almost shouted. "I have another idea. Y'know, just in case the TV Academy smoked that Mexican I sent them, and vote our way." There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. "_Kidding_ Bob, don't freak out! I mean it's great you got her in the door, but I gotta plan to get her all the way if we win. Just depends on the element of surprise."

Three eager ears remained glued to three receivers as he outlined the plan.

"So, whaddaya think?"

Davy and Peter were impressed, but it took a moment for Bob to answer.

_"Pretty clever, but I dunno... it sounds a little, ah, a little too Nesmith, y'know?"_

"BOB!" the other three shouted in unison.

_"Okay, okay. I like it. It'll work. And it'll give that little rat Kirshner a proper adios. Agreed, then?"_

"AGREED."

The guys rejoined their guests, filled in Chip, and re-commenced to party.

"Oi, wait just thought of something!" Davy announced before firing up the hookah. "What if Bob was drunk, like he said he'd be, and only sounded like he meant it?"

Peter snorted, then giggled, then told the rest of them before breaking up completely, "Outtasight! He won't remember _what _he said!" He stood then and raised his beer mug to the company.

"Men... and ladies... I propose a toast. To the defeat of Don Kirshner, and another triumph for the MONKEE MEN!"

Davy, Micky, and Chip rose. "To the MONKEE MEN!"

Micky finished by warning everyone, "And not a word to Bonnie about that last part."

"Right you are, she'd bleedin' kill us all," Davy agreed, then turned to the girls. "Now, me lovelies, where were we?"

* * *

**A/N: The lyrics Bonnie finds in the music room do not belong to Michael Nesmith, I excerpted and (slightly) adapted them from "Glass" written by Ross Cooperman, recorded by Thompson Square. Because I thought they fit, and they are not entirely unlike something he might write. And for trivia fans, I confess I know that Ann Moses was a contributing editor of Tiger Beat, not 16 Magazine. Literary license, la-la-la!**


	7. Red carpet

"So Mike, whaddaya think?"

Micky glanced out the door of Bob's office to make sure nobody was approaching as he shared the final part of the night's plan with Mike. He, Mike, Davy, and Peter were gathered there with Bob to wait for Bonnie. Genie had insisted on "finishing her up" in an outfit she'd had shipped straight from Mary Quant's design studio in London. Being the head of wardrobe for the show had its perks.

"I think Davy's pants belong at the circus," Mike observed.

"That's why I'm wearin' 'em," Davy laughed. "If this show ain't a circus, what is?"

Bob leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. "You got that right. Look, no matter what _Nesmith_ thinks, the plan's set. If we win, Davy will..."

"Why Davy?" Mike complained. "Shee-it, why can't I do it? Hell we've put up with enough bullshit, we earned the right to shove it in their faces."

"Too obvious, man," Micky explained. "Don't want anyone thinking it's the same old same old, 'Mercurial Nesmith' and all that."

"Gotta agree," Peter said, "we want everyone to know it's about all of us, together."

"For once," Bob added.

Mike thought about that for a minute. "Yeah, okay, in fact Morris said something like that too. Tonight's the one night we'll all be on the same side in the same place."

Micky jumped up from where he was slouched on the sofa, and brandished an Instamatic. "Good thing I got a camera!"

"Well boys, don't you all look smashing," Genie announced from the doorway. She wouldn't be attending the ceremony, but was helping the set guys decorate the suite at the Hilton where Columbia-Screen Gems was hosting a bash for the Monkees cast and crew, win or lose. "Dear, dear, Davy, those trousers..." she clucked, "dressed in the dark, did you luv?"

"Considering his extracurricular rep, we're lucky he's wearing pants at all," came a familiar voice from behind her.

"Hey now, just one minute there," Davy began to protest, but his jaw dropped when Bonnie pushed past Genie. "Bloody hell!"

The others stood and lined up like boggled school kids, even Bob. Even _Mike_, who was the only one in the room who had seen Bonnie's new hairdo.

Micky broke the silence. "Will ya look who has her mojo _workin'!_"

Bonnie was wearing the outfit imported from Mary Quant by Genie: a flapper style dress of black silk with skinny spaghetti straps and two tiers of crystal pleated black silk making up the very short skirt. The shoes were also from Quant, black leather pumps with a chunky high heel. The only jewelry she wore was a wide, glossy black bangle on her left wrist, and the ever-present gold-and-silver Lone Star ring Mike had given her on her right pinkie. Together with her shiny Sassoon hair and Genie's carefully applied makeup ("No big Bambi eyes," she'd insisted, "I don't wanna look like an orphan!"), she looked like a whole new person. She _felt_ like a whole new person._  
_

"So, guys, whaddaya think?" She did a silly little pirouette. "Mind being seen with me?"

Even Bob was speechless. Finally Mike stepped up and draped an arm around her, doing his best to tickle her neck with a lace-edged cuff. Genie had chosen his suit as well, a blinding white linen tux with a bare sliver of black ribbon visible at the front of the shirt collar.

"Don't know about you fellas," he drawled, "but I think it's about time somebody brought a little class to this traveling zoo."

As if on cue Micky whipped out his camera, snapped a flashcube on top, and fired off a few shots before turning back to the others.

"I can't _believe_ our kids are going to the prom, it seems like only yesterday they were duking it out over wool hats."

"I'll see you lot of weirdos at the party," Genie laughed. "Good luck, and try not to spill on yourselves."

They all were wearing their own unique take on evening wear, Davy with a bow tie and black jacket over wildly out-of-place white window pane checked pants. Micky was more subdued, dark striped trousers and a classy double breasted evening jacket with a Cary Grant ascot. Only Peter was in full-tux, complete with brocade cutaway. Bob was sort-of-tux like. All together they looked like pretty much the real men who played something a little hipper-by-design on TV.

From his inside jacket pocket Mike pulled a pair of black shades with small round lenses and slipped them on.

"Oh, _NO_, you you look like an evil Mr. Peepers!" Bonnie wailed. Whereupon he raised both eyebrows to his companions then leaned down and hooked a finger in the bodice of her dress.

"Yep, the peepin's _fine_ from here... let's get going before you gimme more ideas." Mike started to draw Bonnie after him out the door in the direction of where the limo would be waiting, but Bob called him back.

"Hey, do me a favor, keep your hands off of each other in front of the cameras."

Bonnie pulled free and marched back to stand in front of Bob. Thanks to her Quant heels, they were almost eye to eye.

"Look, every gossip rag and fan mag in the business knows 'the mercurial Monkee and the production exec' are together. Nesmith is calling contractors about a security fence to keep the photographers at bay."

"And an attack dog," Mike chimed in, "don't forget the attack dog."

"Over your dead body," Bonnie shot over her shoulder and turned back to Bob. "I say we take advantage of the Monkees' debut of legit-ness to go legit _all _the way."

"Legit?" Peter echoed, and Micky promptly began to whistle The Wedding March.

"Now hold on there just a minute missy, what kinda rumors are you trying to replace all them _other_ rumors with?" Mike demanded.

_"Shaddup,_ will you? I'm trying to make a point!"

Mike exchanged a look with Davy and Peter. "Yes dear," they chorused.

"I think I get it, Bonnie," Bob was saying. "You're right, we don't need to play that game anymore. But like I said, you're gonna have to deal with the fan response."

"Oh goodie," Mike chirped, clapping his hands like a six-year old, "maybe I'll get more _fan mail_." Then he dropped the comic persona. "Can we get a move on?"

"Sure, Mike." Bob ushered everyone out the door, "Wouldn't want you to miss a chance to sneer at the public."

* * *

When they were all in the back of the limo Bonnie settled under Mike's arm. It was a good feeling. She looked around at the others, knowing that they were as wound up as she was in spite of their (forced) casual demeanor.

"Look, guys," Bonnie told everyone, "thanks for having me along." She meant a lot more than just for tonight. For all of the work she knew she did, and she knew she did it well, this night seemed to bring it all together with stunning clarity. She was nowhere near where she'd planned to be when she'd left New York; she was in a place she'd never imagined with people she couldn't imagine being without. Her deep and meaningful reverie was interrupted by Nesmith's nibble at her neck.

"Well thanks for being _had,"_ he growled.

"Hey, cut it out!" She shoved him away. "Ever since I cut my hair you act like I'm some kinda chew toy!"

"Serves you right for flashing that tasty-looking neck," Micky observed wickedly, then threw his hands up as if to fend off a blow. "Just an observation, guys!"

Out of nowhere, Davy spoke up. "Look, lads... and Bonnie. No matter what wanker we're forced to sit with tonight, no matter how he gloats, or if we win or lose..." He brandished his invitation with the Monkees show nominations listed. "This one's _ours._ No doubles, no backups."

"Like I said..." Bonnie cast a sharp look at Mike to restrain him. "Thanks for having me along. I know you didn't have to."

"Bullshit." Bob, who had been staring out the window like a stranger on a bus, startled them all with his sudden declaration. "You're one of us. And I'll kick the ass of anyone who says otherwise."

"Well said," Davy announced. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

* * *

When they climbed out of the limo Bonnie was holding Mike's hand as he pulled her to her feet. There were the usual legions of screaming teenagers, but more grownup-celebrity watchers outnumbered them.

"Hey Mike!" a reporter called out. "Is it true you and the associate producer are living in sin?" The other reporters laughed.

"Nah," Bonnie called back, "we live in the Hills. Sin is up the coast a ways."

Bob was trying to hustle everyone up the carpet, and pointed to where Pam stood behind the press line. "There's your pass, Bonnie, we'll see you later."

With an impish look on her face, Pam shouted, "So it's true then that you're _together _not just on the set?"

Instead of answering Mike grabbed Bonnie and dipped her into a hot kiss, one arm wrapped discreetly around her ass to keep her skirt in place.

"You could say that," he announced after releasing her, then leaned down to whisper, "Later, mama." He gave her a light shove in Pam's direction and trotted to catch up to the others, including the two writers who had arrived in, predictably, a taxi.

Bonnie curtsied to the laughter and applause of the gathered reporters, most of whom she knew by name from handling so many production press calls for the show.

"What can I say, boys, you've found us out. Michael Nesmith and I are_ going steady_. No further comment." She ducked under the velvet rope to join them, or to join Pam to be more specific, and waved her shiny new temporary press pass. "See, I'm one of you tonight!",

Just then a silver Rolls pulled up, and out stepped Don Kirshner like the king of goddamn Prussia.

"Well I'll be damned," Pam muttered, "he did show up. Hey Jack!" she hollered to a photographer on the other side of the carpet. "I owe you ten!" Seeing Bonnie's confusion she explained, "some of us were betting he wouldn't show, just to be an asshole. Force you out and leave the seat empty you know?"

Bonnie looked over to where Kirshner was chatting with some bystanders and posing for photographs for the music mags. It was gonna be a might chilly evening at table "18". She almost felt sorry for the little creep.

That is, until she and Pam heard him telling a reporter, "No, I don't know where Bonnie Morris is tonight," he was saying, "I only know she's not here."

"Oooh, that little shit," Pam grumbled.

"Yeah, well watch this," Bonnie told her before leaning over the press rope. "Wrong again, Don. I'm with the fourth estate tonight... care to comment on your sudden departure from the most successful show on television, and speculate why the ratings spiked for the last four episodes of the season?"

Kirshner whipped around and glared in her direction, clearly not recognizing her at first. Bonnie offered an exaggerated smile and wiggled her fingers in an insincere wave. She was rewarded by the sight of Don Kirshner as close to losing his cool in public as she'd ever be likely to witness. As always, he recovered with lightning speed.

"I'd love to stay and catch up, but dinner awaits." He smirked and was gone.

"Hope ya choke on it, you weasel," Bonnie snarled under her breath. She was definitely looking forward to the rest of the evening, especially since she'd be spending it with Pam. But the thought of sitting staring at Kirshner's back as he sat where _she_ belonged was a nasty little stab to the heart. Fine. When they won... and she knew they'd win, she _knew _it, goddammit, they had all put up with too much bullshit and high judgment and being looked-down-the-nose by too many others _not_ to win... Kirshner would smile and sleaze and smarm and would know every minute, deep in his black soul, that he had had _nothing_ at all to do with it. She'd decided that would be enough.

Pam was dragging at her arm. "C'mon," she urged, "the press buffet is _way_ better than that rubber-chicken-and-warm-champagne deal in there." She was eager to get the evening going, even more eager for the Best Comedy, Musical, or Variety Show category to be called. Like Bonnie, Pam knew in her heart that the show _had to_ win. Unlike Bonnie, she also knew what would happen when it did.


End file.
